


The Boy who Blocked his Own Shot

by applepielife



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepielife/pseuds/applepielife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he swings himself back into the car, Walt instantly notices that he's more relaxed. And smells sweetly. He wrinkles his nose, but he doesn't say anything, even lets the kid drive. If they end up crashing against something on the highway at least they're dead. There's hardly any difference. At least this life of theirs is ending when they drive off the street and on the big road. </p><p>Neither of them speaks. It's just the sound of the car, themselves breathing and the night around them.</p><p>It gets cold at night in the desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me what I'm doing. I never know what I'm doing. This fic is set at no too specific point in the series, personally I've watched up to 3x01, so any similarities to further seasons - no idea man, coincidence. There's going to be lots of sexy times in here, so I already chose those archive warnings.

The room's dark, moist and there's that musky smell surrounding them, sticking to their clothes. There's he and he's gurgling, that obscure sound rumbling in his throat ends up with him choking on his own blood. His eyes are wide, dark, his hand is trying to grab something right above him, but there's nothing. Just the moist air and his spread fingers, twitching. It's a horrible scenario, but Jesse isn't phased. He sits there, in one corner of the room, back flat against the cold wall, arms propped up on his knees. All he can do is stare, not look. It's like he sees his life ending – sees himself trying to get rid of yet another body, sees flesh and bone sizzling in acid until something goes wrong, there's a crack in the system and he's gonna be jailed, he's gonna die: either old and alone, or kill himself before the police gets to him. Mr. White doesn't look too phased either, but there's that twitch of his upper lip that's pretty much of a tell-tale. He's just as fucked as Jesse. It's comforting, in a way, and the boy moves to chance another glance at the chemistry teacher, giving a faint shrug.

“What now?” he asks, voice pitchy around the edges, almost small, and fuck, Jesse hates it. He hates all of it. For once in his life he'd rather sit at a lakeside, fishing or simply having the sun melt his brain while he's content, maybe smoking. 

“Shut up, Pinkman.” Walter growls and the guy in the middle of the room gives another choke, a cry and his body starts twitching obscurely, he's curling himself up on his side, pulling himself into a macabre sort of hug. “Just wait until he's gone.”

And Jesse shuts up, mouth a tight line and he starts chewing at the inside of his cheek. The noises the guy makes get worse and worse, more and more disgusting and he starts to be positive that he's gonna throw up if he continues giving these bloody, guttural sobs. Mr. White doesn't move, he's just sitting there and Jesse feels like laughing at him, he's a pathetic laughing stock with his pinny and white tennis socks. But he doesn't laugh and he doesn't move, he shuts up 'til the bastard has choked on his last breath. The insides of his cheeks start hurting and he faintly tastes iron. It doesn't mix well with the dying man in front of him, especially not with his smell. 

Even more so because he just about started shitting himself. Jesse can't hold it anymore, his fingers digging into the palm of his hand, the eyelid of his right eye twitching - “Fucking hell!” he blurts out and gets up, feels like kicking the crap out of the guy for struggling so long. Walt raises a warning, finger, but no, he's not gonna curtsy for him.

“Where are we gonna go? What are we gonna do? Fuck this shit, Mr. White, I'm out! I'm so out! Screw you! Screw all of this!” he doesn't care that his voice is rising a pitch with each word. 

He doesn't care that his nostrils are flaring, his cheeks are flushed and he's probably got teary, red eyes. He's already about to just go at the guy, end him, when he feels Mr. White jerk him backwards where he comes stumbling back against the wall. He's gesturing, almost flailing, and he still doesn't shut up. “What?! Don't fucking give me that “I told you to shut up look”. Don't you freak-”

“This was supposed to be the “I told you to wait until he's gone” look, Jesse.” he says, blankly, but his eyes are furious. “Don't touch him. We didn't actually touch him if you don't. This way, we can just-”  
“-just what?! Huh? Just what? Got a plan, genius? 'Cos we actually just killed that poor bastard!”

That poor bastard gives another choke and Walter has to turn and cough, covering his mouth with his hand, looking like a coughing fit is the last thing he can handle while dealing with an imbecile like Jesse. It makes the boy even angrier and he just keeps rambling.

He keeps rambling and Mr. White keeps coughing until they both fall silent and notice that they're not the only ones who fell quiet. “He's dead.” Jesse murmurs and his eyes look manic when they fall on Walt again, a grin spreading on his lips. He doesn't know what's gonna be next on their schedule, but the wait had been so long, it just had to be worth it. Simple thinking. Long wait – good thing.

When the chemistry teacher doesn't say anything and just awkwardly lowers himself on the corpse, ear close to his mouth but not quite touching it, Jesse says it again, grin fading. “He's dead, man. What now?” Walt looks up and he can see it on his face. Jesse is about to burst into a bubble of teenage rage and the need for drug consumption.

“I don't know.” Mr. White says and he wants to rip his silly mustache off his face and stomp on it, singing a Native American spiritual. He almost sees it in front of his inner eye, so he gives a desperate kind of laugh. 

“You don't know.” he repeats, another laugh bubbling up. “You...don't know.” 

“Shut up, Pinkman.”

Jesse wants to snap, but he just snaps his mouth shut and glares. Intensely. He lets Mr. White think, though, because really, what other choice does he have?

Ten minutes later, they're driving. Jesse is still stiff from the shock, hands fiddling with his keyrings just so he's got something to do. He lets him get his stuff, he said. And he's just going to say goodbye to his family for a moment. They're sleeping, obviously, but Jesse doesn't think it'll be that easy. None of it will be easy. They've seen their faces and they killed a man, and none of it can be easy. Mr. White wants to get out of the car, but suddenly he feels the boy tug at the sleeve of his shirt.

“No.” Jesse says, voice shaky.

Walter knows the kid is going to have a breakdown from the way the muscles of his jaw tense, the blue of his eyes seems bluer and are honeycombed with red. He picks his hand up from where his fingers are curling in the fabric of his cardigan, brows raising in question.

“You're not gonna come back.” Jesse adds, more firmly this time.

“Yes, I'm not going to come back and this is the last time I'm seeing them!” Walt snaps and Jesse's face turns from emotional and tense into stone. He's letting him go, though.

When Mr. White returns, Jesse is back to being stiff, cautiously watching the street and the surrounding houses. He gets inside the car with a sigh. “Calm down, Pinkman.”

“Don't-” Jesse says, sharply. “Don't tell me to calm down.” 

But he does, somehow. He's starting the engines and drives over to his place. He doesn't have anyone to say goodbye to. Well, he doesn't have anyone he wants to say goodbye to. He's much quicker with gathering his things. He mostly just needs his money, anyways. Number one priority. In fact, he only just needs a minute to grab the bag filled with banknotes and secretly smokes a pipe, leaning back into one kitchen chair, legs sprawled out over the other. It's like his life is ending – and he needs something to make it easier. Anything. The weed is at least numbing his senses to the point where he can't think further than the next step: get into the car, drive off with your former chemistry teacher. It's easy.

When he swings himself back into the car, Walt instantly notices that he's more relaxed. And smells sweetly. He wrinkles his nose, but he doesn't say anything, even lets the kid drive. If they end up crashing against something on the highway at least they're dead. There's hardly any difference. At least this life of theirs is ending when they drive off the street and on the big road. 

Neither of them speaks. It's just the sound of the car, themselves breathing and the night around them.

It gets cold at night in the desert.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have to stop at a shabby highway motel because the kid keeps dropping off at the wheel. He's claiming he's not falling asleep and he can keep going, but Walt knows he's faking it. He, himself, is too tired to drive. Keeps coughing, keeps seeing black. So they get out of the car and into it.

They have to stop at a shabby highway motel because the kid keeps dropping off at the wheel. He's claiming he's not falling asleep and he can keep going, but Walt knows he's faking it. He, himself, is too tired to drive. Keeps coughing, keeps seeing black. So they get out of the car and into it.

The lady at the entrance wants them to pay for hours, so Walter wants to book six, because six hours is a good amount of sleep. Jesse tells him it's too much and they've got keep moving, but he doesn't care and gives the lady a fake-name. Her brows raise when he tells her the amount of hours and she's wishing them a lot of fun, but tells them what the speed dial for emergency is. Jesse, just tired and snappy before, starts looking pissed. They enter the room and the kid throws himself on one of the squeaky mattresses, glaring.

“Y'know, you could at least have tried to make it look less like I'm your hooker and we're off to six hours of disgusting sex.” he mutters and Walter understands. Oh. He doesn't look too phased, though.

“Be glad that's her image of us in case the police comes looking for us and questions her.” the teacher says and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He can't stand the smell of the clothes he's wearing and looks forward to slip into clean pajamas, even though he'd bet that the motel mattresses and sheets contain more germs than his clothes ever could. 

“What're you doing?” Jesse asks and sits back up, so Walt turns to muster him when he slides the white shirt off his shoulders.

“I'm getting changed. You should, too. You smell like you just killed someone.”

“Wait so you seriously bothered to pack a nice bag full of clothes?” Jesses asks and starts chewing on his thumbnail. 

“I didn't waste my time with getting high, Jesse. Some people actually plan things. What did you bring?”

Jesse groans and falls back into the checkered blanket. “My money.” he states and blinks up at the ceiling. “Nothin' but my money.”

Walter feels like scolding him, but his mouth slowly closes again. No, not this time. They got enough trouble, they don't need to rile each other up. He gets completely undressed and simply ignores the kid's presence, sighing softly when he gets into warm clothes. He's going to the bathroom, wondering why Jesse didn't, so he gives him a look-over when he returns. He's still lying there, stretched out, staring up at the ceiling like he just got shot. “Go to sleep.” he says briefly and slips under his own blankets. They smell like sex and booze. A wrinkle of his nose and he rolls on his side, realizing how much his bones have been aching. He can hear that the kid still didn't move.

“Go to sleep.” he repeats and Jesse mutters something inaudible. “...what? Speak up, Jesse.”

“I can't believe I'm here. I can't fucking believe-” he keeps mumbling, but Walter can't understand a word he was saying, but is positive that half of it should be beeped out. 

“I have two pair of pajamas. You can lend-”

“This isn't about your fucking PJs, old man!” the kid snarls, but he can finally hear him pulling a blanket over himself. Good. It's better to let Jesse drive, with him constantly breaking out into coughing fits and the kid needs a good night's sleep. 

Half an hour of silence, but he notices that none of them are able to sleep. He tries, though, and indulges in the moment of something so close to calm. Until he hears a shaky sob from the bed next to him. He almost startles, but acts like he doesn't hear it for another half an hour. When the kid is still crying, he realizes that one and a half of six hours he paid for passed, and they still didn't sleep. Walt slowly sits up and his eyes flicker to where Jesse lies, curled up on himself, on his side, his back towards him. He can see his shoulders twitch and shake, and how he's biting into the back of his hand to quiet himself. And how he bites down even harder when he realizes that Walter is awake. 

He sits there like that for a while, but after five minutes Jesse seems to be choking on his own breath with his effort not to make a sound while he's bawling his eyes out. Without a word he gets up, walks towards the other bed, lifts up the kid's blanket and slides down beside him. He pulls him into his arm and to his surprise Jesse doesn't struggle, doesn't even say anything. The kid's gone numb when he closes his arms around him and holds him tight. Walt knows he's gritting his teeth from the way he can see his jaw clench. Holding him like that is barely a necessity for the chemistry teacher. He needs to stop crying like a little girl and they need to sleep. He understands that he's upset, of course he does. He also understands that the whole thing is too much for Jesse, too much at once to take in. He's unsettled, too. He misses his wife, his son. He's never going to see his unborn daughter.

And he starts to relax against the kid's body, cradling him, while he starts to rub big palms over his side. He can feel Jesse's body loosing the tension, but at that exact moment he breaks. He's shaking uncontrollably now. Walt still holds him tight. 

“F-fuck off.” the kid breathes, but he turns around and clings to the man next to him. Walt's Pjs are soaked in tears a moment later. After 45 minutes Jesse stops crying and falls asleep, curled up on his chest, fingers clutching his shirt's front pocket, two fingers loosely hooked in it. They stay like that for the remaining three hours and fifteen minutes.

Jesse wakes up because Walt sits up and coughs heavily. He's not going to see the rest of the teacher's morning routine, though, because he's leaving for the bathroom again. He feels worn out, and fuck, he stinks like cattle. He remembers last night, but he's trying to force the thought of it in the most outer corner of his mind as he rubs his eyes and stretches. He's fishing for the huge jacket he got rid off before he tried to fall asleep and pulls it over his shirt as if it could dampen the smell. Of course it doesn't. He's sitting on the corner of his bed when Mr. White enters the room again, arms propped up at his sides like he's about to jump off it. 

“I smell, man.” he says and a grin tugs the corners of his mouth upwards. They're still fucked and he still considers simply shooting himself rather than pulling through with their plan, but everything seems a little easier with the sunlight falling through the window. They didn't even bother to pull the curtains closed. If anybody saw them from the outside, from where cars pull up and leave in an hourly rhythm, they probably thought exactly what the lady from the counter thought: that he was a filthy faggot-hooker who had to suck old men off to make ends meet. The thought amuses him now, he cackles, swipes his mouth with the back off his hand and pushes himself off the mattress. 

Walt had just stared at him for the whole moment. He was glad, really. If Jesse would've woken up and still seemed at the brink of a breakdown, they could have forgotten their entire plan. He couldn't work with him, the kid would have been useless. And to be honest, it's refreshing to see him smile. 

They have to pay for an additional hour because they got into a quarrel about breakfast – Walt wants to move on and Jesse claims he's going to starve. They end up sitting in the car, still bantering, but agreeing that they'd stop for food after a good three hours of driving. 

The kid's still all terrible swearwords, lax movements and sudden smiles when they're sitting outside of a french fries stall and he's shoving one unhealthy bite after the other in his mouth. Walt thinks about how it's probably all he had in the past years. For the first time he's thinking about what Jesse actually ate when he was all alone in that big house of his aunt. 

“Yo! What're you looking at?” the kid asks, brows narrowing in confusion because Walt had just been about to force another bite of the hotdog he's gotten inside of him and froze in the movement: elbows propped up on the table and a death stare on his face. He quickly clears his throat and pats his mouth with a paper napkin.

“Nothing, nothing. Just... I need to have a look at the road map.”

“What road map?”

“Every bumbling idiot has a road map in his car, Pinkman.”

“Yeah? Well...I ain't a bumbling idiot.”

Walt gave an exasperated sigh. “Fine. We need supplies. And you need clothes. We're pulling off at the closest city.”  
Jesse looks at him like he's the one without a high school education and a plan for the future. “But the closest city is too close, Mr. White.” he glances around and leans forward, coming in ridiculously close.  
“Grocery stores got cameras, man.”

“So what are you saying? We keep living on french fries and you keep stinking like a dog? Just me, your smell and the road until we're in New York, or swam over the ocean and built a camp in Timbuktu?” Walt rolls his eyes, but Jesse nods slowly, like it's what he imagined anyways and it makes him all the more angry. “I need medication, Jesse. And for god's sake, you need clothes!”

Jesse wants to reply something snappy, Walt can see it from the way his pupil's dilate in anticipation of what his reaction to whatever obscenity that comes out of his mouth will be and he pops his lips open around the french fry he's currently mutilating. But he's not saying anything. His teeth just fly down on the french fry and he's staring at something right over Walter's shoulder, eyes suddenly wide and panicky. He slowly turns around, and there's two police officers getting their breakfast and waiting for their coffee to be poured in. It wouldn't be unsettling, really, but one of them is staring right back at Jesse. “Fuck...” he can hear the kid say and he's suddenly shoving the leftover fries in his mouth all at once, looking like a hamster right before he gulps them down and darts upright to get back to their car. 

Walt, though, stays seated and looks up at him, gesturing heavily. They can't just play 'hit by lightning' and run off now. He can see Jesse raise his hands above his head in frustration, and he wants to snarl at him when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder.

He can't see the officer's face through the sunglasses he's wearing. Walt's mind runs through every possibility for his approach, but he can't conclude on one, before he speaks. “Is your friend off age?” he asks, voice low and quiet. The chemistry teacher blinks, and the kid's face already lights up, because the question was far off from being: 'Is your friend Jesse Pinkman?' 

“Yeah, I am. I give the best blow jobs on the entire route, Mister.” he blurts out, simultaneously with Walt standing up, slamming his hands on the table and exclaiming: “Excuse me, this is my son!”

Well yeah, they should have agreed on one story. Mr. White's glare is deadly, but apparently nobody in his life will ever take him serious, because the officer is patting his shoulder in sympathy and nods, buggering back off to his colleague. 

“The best blow jobs on the entire route.” Walter repeats blankly when they're back in the car and Jesse laughs at his face. 

“Sorry, yo?” he says, suppressing another laugh. “But apparently it was still me saving our asses out there, so you better be grateful.”

Walt rolls his eyes and Jesse starts the car, letting another bubble of laughter out. So this is what he's going to live with – an unpredictable mixture of desperate sobs and childish giggles. Through the entire US. On their own. With a bunch of corpses they left behind, and the need for new cooking material and places to stay at long enough to do their business and get some money. Very Kafka-esque.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're digging this, people, 'cos this is where the action starts.


End file.
